


Soft Hearts, Electric Souls

by daisywillliveforever



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Season 3(ish), some internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisywillliveforever/pseuds/daisywillliveforever
Summary: Mandy walks in on Ian and Mickey. Things change, slightly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was cleaning out my story folder and uncovered this, which I'd started writing when Season 5 was first airing. I decided to polish it up and post it, because we could all use a little fluffy Gallavich in our lives.
> 
> Title from "House of Memories" by Panic! at the Disco.

Mandy walks in on them by accident.

They hadn’t been able to fuck properly for weeks. The Gallagher house was almost always full, and it seemed to be even moreso since Mandy started spending nights there and Debbie and Carl’s friends were always in and out of the place. It was almost summer, and although it served as a last resort, having sex outside—even in the cool shade provided by the shadow of tall buildings in an alleyway or underneath the bleachers at the baseball diamond—would be unbearable. The Milkovich house, where they usually messed around, was unusually busy. Because of a recent drug run that had strengthened the relationship between Terry and his “business partners,” said business partners were constantly in and out of the house—as though they had somehow earned that right. The storeroom at the Kash and Grab was always an option, but over the years it had become cramped and uncomfortable. A bed, or at least some floor space where they could stretch out, was far better than being bent awkwardly over a metal shelf.

So, when there came a day in mid-June in which Terry and all of his “associates” were out of town on business… well. Ian and Mickey didn’t fuck around about fucking around.

Honestly, Mickey had thought he’d covered all the bases. He’d locked the doors (not that anyone with half a brain and some determination couldn’t pick the lock, but whatever.), made absolutely sure that his brothers weren’t going to be dropping by (Iggy had a girlfriend whose place he was crashing at, Joey was in prison with absolutely no chance of parole, and Mickey was pretty sure Tony was dead in a ditch somewhere), and had even drawn the curtains (like they were in a Victorian era novel or something).

It was stupid to not factor Mandy into the equation, but then again, Mickey had barely seen her since she started hanging around with Lip Gallagher every day. Plus, he was eager to screw—that is, be screwed—by Ian for weeks. If he’d assumed without double-checking that she wasn’t going to be home, well, that was his decision to make.

And what a stupid decision it was.

Ian had been pounding him into the mattress, and had found just the right spot—which allowed Ian’s dick to hit Mickey’s prostate (aka the best part of human anatomy because _Jesus motherfucking H. Christ--_ ) with every thrust—when Mandy crashed through Mickey’s door.

“Have you seen my hairbrush, I think I left it in—God fucking…what the fuck!”

Ian froze. Mickey froze. They shared an awkward, pained glance over Mickey’s shoulder. Then, without moving, Mickey looked at Mandy.

“It’s not what it looks like.” He deadpanned, at a loss of what to say.

“Not what it—it looks like my best friend’s dick is up your ass is what it looks like!” She screeched, and her words seemed to send Ian into overdrive because in about two seconds flat he was off Mickey and was securing the belt on his pants.

Mickey grabbed for his own clothes awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with Mandy and Ian. When he was finished, and still feeling weird, he chanced a look at Mandy.

Her face was beet red, and she her eyes were flicking between Ian and Mickey as though they held the key to the world’s greatest mystery, but she didn’t appear mad.

“Mickey, you’re gay?” She asked, staring at him. She really didn’t hold back, did she? Mickey reached for a cigarette, but decided against it last minute. His hands were shaking so bad he’d just drop the lighter and burn the house to the ground or something.

“Good luck getting him to say that.” Ian said (of _course_ Ian said that, he was always pushing Mickey, pushing, pushing, pushing. Like this was a goddamn Broadway musical).

“Oh fuck you.” Mickey muttered, almost as reflex, his eyes trained on the ground.

“I think it’s the other way around, Mickey.” Joked Ian, and Mickey’s head whipped around so fast he felt dizzy. Glaring at Gallagher, and his cocky expression, Mickey was about to cross the room (to either punch Ian or kiss him, Mickey didn’t know yet), when Mandy spoke.

“So,” Mandy said, conversationally, “How long has this thing been going on for?”

It seemed as though Mandy had gotten over her initial shock, and was now somewhat bemused by the situation. She was leaning against his doorframe, her eyebrows raised, as though she was waiting for an answer sometime soon.

Mickey glared at her, and her fucking nonchalance, snapping, “It ain’t your fucking business, bitch.”

“Since I literally walked in on you getting fucked by this ginger prick--” Mandy jerked her thumb towards Ian, and added, almost as an afterthought, “--No offense, Ian, you know I love you—I figured that it is my fucking business, asshole.”

“We are not talking about this.”

“Oooh, yes we are Gallagher. I think I deserve to know that my best friend and my brother are screwing.”

Mandy sounded slightly hurt;

Ian bit his lower lip, and that shouldn’t have turned Mickey on (it really, really shouldn’t have) but Gallagher was still glistening with sweat and—

“…Mickey! Jesus, I’m trying to talk to you, asswipe!” Mandy snapped, bringing Mickey’s attention back to the matter at hand.

Suddenly, the familiar bedroom seemed way too small for the three of them. Mickey could feel his sister’s curious stare, the disbelief written into the lines of her face as she studied them. The thought that Mandy was being so casual about it (Mickey being gay, Mickey fucking Gallagher, whatever), that someone else knew and could tell anyone (not that Mandy would but still), that she knew his big, bad secret now, was overwhelming.

Instinct kicked in. Whatever temporary shock Mickey had been experiencing that had kept him from freaking the hell out was gone, and he said brashly, in an attempt to save face, “Listen, okay, it was just a fucking one time thing—“

Ian scoffed, looking at Mickey with an incredulous look on his face. Mickey glanced away quickly, unable to stare too long.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mands.” Ian said, pushing his way past her and into the hallway. A few seconds later, the sound of the front door slamming echoed throughout the house.

Mickey chanced a look at Mandy, feeling embarrassed and cagey and inexplicitly like he just fucked the fuck up.

Mandy’s face looked soft, almost like she pitied him or some shit, and she took a step further into the room. “Mickey…”

A tightness had blossomed in Mickey’s chest, consuming everything within his torso and pushing against his ribs. Finding it hard to breathe if he didn’t say something, anything, Mickey spat out, “Two years.”

Mandy stopped, hand partially outstretched, staring at him blankly. “What?”

“That’s, um,” Mickey muttered, eyes trained on the ground, “Two years. It’s been two years since we’ve started fucking. Gallagher and I, I mean.”

When they were kids, and Mickey would steal Mandy’s Barbies or Tony (who had the least amount of affection for Mandy out of all of them) would push Mandy around, she’d get this hurt, almost puppy-dog like expression on her face. It always managed to win their father over, and he smacked whomever made that look appear on Mandy’s face upside the head.

Now, that look was back. That innocently pained expression that always made Mickey feel insanely guilty.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked, her eyes wide. Mickey tried to see the situation from her perspective. The words ‘you know I love you’ flashed through his mind, and he thought for a moment that Mandy might be somewhat betrayed by this whole affair.

Sighing, Mickey admitted, “I didn’t want you to freak out, alright?”

In response, Mandy took a step forward and punched his arm. Hard.

“Ow, what the fuck bitch?” He hissed, because Mandy was strong, okay? Mandy was grinning, the hopeless expression gone from her face. Mickey wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if it was still there.

“I wouldn’t freak out, alright. It was weird, walking in on you two… and disgusting, I mean you’re my fucking brother—“

“Yeah, yeah, bite me.” Mickey interrupted, trying to sound intimidating. Obviously it didn’t work, because Mandy barely faltered.

“But, I wasn’t gonna freak out. And I’m not going to tell anybody, either.”

“Better not.”

Silence fell over the room for a minute before Mandy turned to him and said gravely, “But if you fuck it up with Ian, like, permanently, I will cut your balls off and keep them in a pickle jar. Understood?”

Feeling slightly offended, Mickey snapped, “I’m your brother, you’re not gonna take my side in our arguments?”

Mandy rolled her eyes, “Like you need any help fighting your corner.”

“Well,” Mickey grumbled, secretly happy that his sister knew the full extent of his badassary, “yeah, whatever.”

His sister sighed and pushed off the wall she’d been leaning against, walking towards the door. “Want a beer?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mickey called, following her into the hall. As an afterthought, he said, “And a pickle jar? Really?”

The only response he got was laughter.

* * *

 

Several hours later, when the sun had set behind the horizon and the sky was colored a hazy blue-purple, Mickey sat outside on the porch steps. He knew he’d messed up with Ian, but Mickey knew that Ian knew that this wasn’t a big thing. _Couldn’t_ be a big thing. Because if Terry even thought—

Mickey cut his thoughts off there. It was unhealthy to be thinking about that when he was this drunk. Which, admittedly, wasn’t _that_ drunk, but it was enough. Enough to make him do something stupid, something he’d regret.

Sighing, Mickey took a deep drag from his cigarette. He’d almost forgotten it was there; clasped between the ‘F’ and the ‘U’ of the word ‘FUCK’ tattooed on his fingers. It was nearly burnt down to the filter, but Mickey didn’t mind. He exhaled, watching the smoke swirl into the dark Chicago sky.

Mickey heard the screen door slam, and a minute later Mandy was settling down next to Mickey. Their shoulders brushed, but there was enough room for them to sit somewhat comfortably. Mickey knew she was looking at him, but he didn’t want to look back. To see the complicated mix of emotions in her eyes; confusion, curiosity, hurt and, most of all, pride. As if walking in on her brother and her best friend had suddenly made them both so very brave. Something to be proud of.

Like he had done something heroic when, in reality, Mickey was just a coward.

“So,” Mandy said, a shit-eating grin on her face, “You bottom.”

“Shaddup.” Mickey drawled, feeling his face heat up in spite of himself.

“I’ve always wondered what Ian’s like in the sack,” Mandy said, and Mickey felt his face scrunching in disgust. It was weird to be talking about this with his sister.

“Just because you know about Gallagher and me doesn’t mean that we can talk about it like a couple of girls, alright?” Mickey defended, flicking the now-burnt out cigarette stub into the shadowed front lawn.

“And what’s wrong with being a girl, huh?” Mandy joked, shoving her shoulder against his playfully. Mickey rolled his eyes, slightly irritated, but didn’t do anything in retaliation besides knocking his knee against hers.

“Seriously though, Mickey,” The unexpected seriousness in her tone made Mickey turn to face her, and he was surprised by the solemn expression on her face, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Mickey knew that that really meant “I won’t tell dad”, and he was extremely grateful. He knew she wouldn’t tell anyone, (she had said it earlier, after all, but this felt far more serious, more weighted, because there was so much to lose), but it was always rough, talking like this. Milkovich's didn't do talking.

“Are you, y’know, pissed?” Mickey mumbled, because he’s shit at this _talking_ thing.

Mandy eyed him for a moment before glancing away. “No,” She said, “Shocked, yeah. Confused, hell yeah. And, um, I mean, Ian’s my best friend…”

“I know, I know, if I hurt him…”

Mandy huffed out a laugh, and then slapped him upside the head.

“What the fuck—“

“And was that today, huh? A one time thing? What the hell, Mickey?!”

He didn’t want to admit that he was freaked out. Unable to think of a good comeback, Mickey grumbled, “Whatever.”

“Okay, I see how this is gonna be.” There was a moment of quiet between them, which was broken only by the rattle of the El nearby and the sound of sirens in the distance.

“Seriously though, what is he like in bed?” Mandy asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. Mickey groaned.

“No way in fuck I’m answering that. I’m getting another beer.” He said, standing.

Mandy gave him the finger, sticking her tongue out and making a childish face. Mickey resisted the urge to kick her onto the ground on his way into the house.

* * *

 

It wasn’t until two days later that Mickey had enough courage to see Ian again. He’d been avoiding the Kash and Grab for that period of time, and hadn’t dared to walk by the Alibi or the Gallagher house. Mandy kept shooting him dirty looks, but hadn’t commented on it. Especially because Tony (so he wasn’t dead in a ditch. It wasn’t really a relief to Mickey, but he didn’t—couldn’t—exactly say that) and Terry were in and out of the house all weekend.

It wasn’t until he was sitting on the floor playing Call of Duty on their stolen Xbox that Mickey began to think. The sound of gunfire in the game reminded him of when he would help Ian train for ROTC. Mickey thought it was stupid, how Ian wanted to go get his ass shot off in some desert country. But he’d helped out none the less, because…

(By this point, Mickey’s character had died and respawned in the game, but Mickey wasn’t really paying attention)

Because he cared.

Mickey groaned, and almost threw the controller at the wall with that realization. Fuck, Mickey _gave a shit._ About Ian. And all of Ian’s problems. And about Ian’s (fuck) happiness.

Mickey turned off the console. He hadn’t showered three days, and it was starting to show.

After taking a shower, and _definitely not_ putting on his nicest jeans and t-shirt, Mickey left the house. It was around three o’clock on a Monday, so Mandy and Ian should’ve gotten out of school already. Mickey knew that Ian had Monday’s off (he’d traded his half days on Monday and Thursday for all-day Saturday… he made more money that way, and was able to keep on top of his schoolwork also… and Mickey felt slightly sick for remembering that). So he headed toward the Gallagher house, unsure if Ian would even be there.

Mickey climbed the rickety steps, and knocked soundly on the door. He fidgeted, suddenly nervous. The door swung open, and Mickey came face-to-face with the eldest Gallagher sister, Fiona. Her dark hair was tied up sloppily, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She was dressed nicely, like a typical cubicle worker. Mickey vaguely remembered Ian mentioning something about her searching for a new job.

“Can I help you?” She asked wearily. Mickey thumbed his mouth idly.

“Yeah, is uh, Ian here?”

Fiona gave him a _look,_ (an ‘are-you-fucking-serious’ look), and stated, “If he owes you money—“

“He doesn’t owe me shit.” Mickey was surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “I just, uh, want to talk.”

Holding up her hands in mock defeat, Fiona stepped back to let Mickey in. He eyed the messy living room, which was surprisingly void of all Gallaghers. Fiona brushed by Mickey, and snapped, “Ian’s upstairs. If he starts yellin’, I’m grabbing my baseball bat and aiming for your head.”

She was skinny, from years of eating baloney sandwiches without the meat and genetics, but damn, Fiona Gallagher was scary. Mickey fled from the weight of her gaze on the back of his neck as he hastily climbed the staircase.

Mickey had been to the Gallagher house once or twice since he’d known them, usually to throw some punches about some shit Lip had said. Still, he couldn’t think of a time when he’d actually been upstairs—though it wasn’t hard to tell which room was Ian’s.

Caution tape lined portions of the door—which was cracked slightly ajar, giving Mickey a view of a couple beds and a military poster. Squaring his shoulders, and telling himself that he wasn’t going to pussy out of this, Mickey walked down the hall and into the room.

It was empty. Mickey even double checked, although it wasn’t a very big room. The bunk beds were vacant, as was the one that was clearly Ian’s, on the floor. Mickey eyed the posters on the wall briefly, the knickknacks and books lined on the bedside table and windowsill. There was a miniature of the Sears Tower, though when Ian had managed to do something so touristy was beyond Mickey.

Mickey heard a toilet flush, a door open, and then Ian appeared in the doorframe, ginger and freckled as ever.

Mickey stepped away from the nightstand, clasping his hands in front of him like a schoolboy. Realizing what he was doing, and refusing to admit that the heat in his cheeks might be even remotely close to a blush, Mickey shoved his hands into his pockets instead.

“Mick,” Ian said, slowly. He hadn’t moved, and was now lounging against the door jamb lazily. His expression was devoid of emotion except perhaps curiosity—his right eyebrow quirked slightly.

“Yeah, hey.” Mickey responded. “Um… what’s up?”

This was stupid. _Mickey_ was stupid. He hated this desperate feeling welling up inside him, this urge for validation, or something. Like Mickey needed to feel appreciated by Ian goddamn Gallagher.

It didn’t help that Ian _still_ hadn’t moved, blocking Mickey’s only exit. If he needed to get out of there fast, there was always the window.

Finally, after a moment of silence in which Ian appeared to be sizing Mickey up more than anything else, he said, “Why the fuck are you here, Mickey?”

Mickey shrugged, breaking eye contact. He shuffled his feet, running the scuffed toe of his sneakers across the thin carpet. “I just, uh, wanted to talk.”

A scoff. “You?” Ian’s voice was so disbelieving that Mickey _had_ to chance a look at him again, even if it was for just a brief second. He looked pissed, _truly_ pissed, not coyly pissed like Ian had a habit of being. “Talk?”

“No I’m here to _suck your dick_ with my mouth. Yes, Christ, _talk_ Gallagher. People do it sometimes when they want to communicate and shit.”

“Oh so _now_ you want to communicate _,_ ” Ian took a half step toward Mickey. Mickey, refusing to back down, stayed in place. “just not in front of Mandy, right? Or anyone else who might find out you’re gay.”

Namely Terry. He knew that he’d get it if Terry knew that Mickey was gay. Anyone in his family—besides Mandy, but Mickey hadn’t always known that—would tell Terry. And anyone who was close friends with the Milkovich’s would inevitably tell one of Mickey’s brothers, and then he was back to square one.

It all came down to Terry. As for the rest of the world, Mickey couldn’t give a shit if they knew about what he liked to do in the sack. Sure, in some places Mickey might get threatened or even beat, but he could take it. In other places, Mickey might get too much positive attention—like some queer in Boystown—and he wasn’t about that, either.

All Mickey really wanted to do was drink beer and shoot the shit. And maybe fuck every now and again, too. It wasn’t the end of the world if he liked to fuck dudes, sometimes.

(All the time.)

Mickey must’ve taken too long to reply, because Ian sighed, his shoulders slumping. His gusto had disappeared completely.

“Mickey, why are you here really? What the hell are you looking for?”

“What do I look like, a middle-aged mom at Target to you? I ain’t _looking_ for anything.” Mickey said. “I told you, I wanted to talk.”

Ian gestured weakly with his hand, as if to say “go ahead,” and Mickey thought of the last time Ian had touched him, those hands on his hips, squeezing so hard that they’d leave bruises to be discovered later, and a hot flash burned down Mickey’s spine.

Swallowing several times, both to gather his courage and to will the thought of Ian’s hands away, Mickey said, “You know I hate admitting I’m wrong, Gallagher, ‘cause I’m right like, ninety-nine percent of the time. But I’ll fucking say it, just this once, that I shouldn’t’ve been an ass the other day. Not like you didn’t deserve it or whatever but… it’s more than just a one time thing, to me.”

(--Mickey couldn’t bear to say the word “means” and yet—)

Ian’s eyebrows raised in shock, as though he could hardly believe that Mickey was confessing to this. _Mickey_ could hardly believe that Mickey was confessing to this.

“Oh?” Ian said.

“Yeah, I told Mandy we’d been fucking around for two years so she knows. But ah, I just wanted you to know. That I want to keep doing this, or whatever.”

Mickey’s face was on _fire,_ and he’d basically just played his entire hand, but it was worth it. A smile had wormed it’s way across Ian’s face—small at first and then, by the time Mickey was done talking, a full-blown grin. Even though Ian was taller than Mickey, and his baby face was slowly hardening into something more manly, the smile made Ian look like a giddy child. It was (dammit) _cute._ Or, something. Mickey wasn’t quite sure if he could admit to finding Ian cute, even for a second.

(It was still worth it. Ian was still worth it.)

“I’d like that.” Ian replied after a moment of them just standing there staring at one another.

“Yeah well, getting laid every week is never a bad thing,” Mickey said, turning away to hunt down a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket—only to realize he’d left them at home—, “shit. I’m out of Reds.”

Mickey met Ian’s eyes again. His smile had dimmed but only slightly, and the mischievous look was back again.

“Wanna go to the Kash and Grab and pick some up? I can give you the employee discount.” Ian asked.

“Discount?” Mickey asked, already beelining for the door. “Never been offered the employee discount before.”

“Yep, a discount,” Ian said, catching up with him in the hall. Ian’s breath ghosted across his neck, and one of his freakishly large hands reached down to squeeze Mickey’s ass, _hard._ “a pack for a blowjob, that’s my final and only offer.”

Mickey blinked, feeling frozen, as Ian walked around him. Mickey could feel the tense muscles in Ian’s forearm as he passed. “Yeah,” Mickey croaked, “okay.”

The two thundered down the stairs and out the door—Ian calling goodbye to Fiona and Mickey avoiding her exasperated look. They burst into the late afternoon weather, the sun pressing down on them as they began the trek to the convenience store.

On the way, their shoulders brushed—the back of Ian’s hand (the same hand that had grabbed his ass, dammit) brushed against Mickey’s, their fingers tangling briefly. Mickey pushed Ian’s arm as hard as he possibly could, disconnecting their hands and causing Ian to stumble towards the street.

“I don’t wanna fucking marry you, Jesus Christ. Keep that shit to yourself.” Mickey snapped, not entirely irritated despite his tone. Ian seemed to find this hilarious, and had to stop walking so he could double over laughing instead.

“I’m not waiting for you, Firecrotch!” Mickey shouted, turning a corner and leaving Ian behind.

(They both got there, eventually. Mickey did wind up using his mouth for dick-related purposes, though he never managed to get his cigarettes. Somehow, he didn’t quite mind.)

**Author's Note:**

> They just got so wrapped up in what they were doing that Mickey forgot what he came there for, bless him.


End file.
